Contagious

“Stop it!” Margaret shouted. “All of you, just stop it! We need to figure out why Perry is doing this, and we need to figure it out now. He’s my patient, did you guys forget that? I’m the one who kept that rot from killing him.”

“Hey, I helped,” Amos said.

Margaret waved her hands dismissively. “Yes, of course you did. That’s not what I meant. I know that Perry is extremely dangerous—I’m not an idiot. But since we discovered he can find hosts, he’s run loose. He could have taken off anytime he wanted to, but he hasn’t. And yet you keep him isolated from everyone.”

“You’re G.o.dd.a.m.n right I keep him isolated,” Dew said. “That’s what you do with a psycho. Forget it, Margaret. You’re not going in there.”

“The action is over,” she said quietly. “There’s nothing but bodies in that house, so now it’s my call.”

“Whoa, Nellie,” Amos said. “I hear a gla.s.s ceiling shattering somewhere.”

“I’m not kidding,” Margaret said. “This is now an a.n.a.lysis situation, which means that you”—she pointed at Dew—“and you”—she pointed at Clarence—“have to do what I say. Am I right?”

The two men said nothing.

Amos leaned forward. “I’m afraid that’s what Murray ordered, gents.” He pointed to his head. “Photographic memory and all. Not as cool as carrying a gun, but being smart does have its uses.”

Dew threw up his hands. “You know what? f.u.c.k this. I have to go contact Colonel Ogden. Making sure nothing happens to Margaret is your job, Otto. Good f.u.c.king luck.”

Dew got out of the truck, slamming the door behind him as hard as he could.

“This is bulls.h.i.t,” Clarence said.

“I’m going to the back to get body bags,” Margaret said. “Amos, you come help me. Clarence, if you’re so worried about my safety, get in there and tell Perry to stay put. Feel free to threaten him, because that’s what you men do and it seems to work so well. But put on your hood and gloves before you go in!”

Margaret crossed in front of Amos to go out the sleeper cabin’s pa.s.senger-side door. Like Dew, she slammed it shut behind her.

Clarence sat in silence, shaking his head.

Amos unsuccessfully tried to choke back laughter.

“Something funny?” Clarence asked.

“Put on your hood and gloves,” Amos said. “If you weren’t so p.i.s.sed already, I’d probably make fun of you.”

“Now is not the time, Amos.”

“I said I would make fun of you. I’m not actually making fun of you. Big difference. Man, I can only imagine what that woman is like in the sack.”

“In the bedroom I’m in charge,” Otto said sullenly. “Unfortunately, that seems to be the only place I’m in charge.”

“You’re whipped.”

“I don’t see you backing her down.”

“Everyone knows I’m whipped,” Amos said. “My wife, my daughters, Margaret—not exactly a news flash. But you, Mister Alpha Male? You go ahead and carry the illusion that someday you’ll be able to change the situation.”

“f.u.c.k you, midget. And help me with these gloves.”

Amos held the gloves so Otto could slide his hands inside. Amos made sure the connecting rings snapped home, then ran sticky tape around them.

“Hey,” Amos said. “Twenty bucks says Dawsey kills you.”

“You’re on.”

“I’ll take it out of your locker if he does,” Amos said. “Wouldn’t look right me rifling through the pockets of a corpse.”

“Whatever. If you win, I guess I won’t really be worried about appearances.”

Both men fitted slim earpiece wires around their right ears. Each wire frame contained a small speaker that fit into the ear ca.n.a.l, a microphone and a transmitter that routed into the MargoMobile’s communication center. The sets were on a predefined frequency, same as Dew and the other agents used. They let the scientific team communicate with one another as well as monitor any communication between Dew and his team.

Otto pulled on his black helmet. Amos helped him seal it, then ran a line of sticky tape around the metal collar. Otto held out his right hand, exposing the suit controls mounted in the inner wrist. Amos simply pressed the “on” b.u.t.ton, and the compressor mounted on Otto’s belt started up with a nearly silent hum. His suit’s heavy PVC fabric billowed up slightly, the result of higher pressure inside. Should the suit suffer a tear, air would flow outward, theoretically keeping any contagions or toxins away from his skin until the suit could be repaired and decontaminated.

“I’m off to make twenty bucks,” Clarence said.

“Been nice knowing ya,” Amos said. “See you on the other side.”

Otto nodded, then opened the wide sleeper-compartment door and hopped down. The icy rain bounced off his black suit as he walked toward the house.

GETTIN’ HIS DRINK ON

Perry finished his fifth beer. A blessed buzz started to work its way through his brain. He stood up and walked to the fridge. The door wouldn’t open all the way. It was partially blocked by the body of the man who had s.h.i.t all over himself. Perry put a foot on the man’s hip and slid him to the right.

Inside the fridge he found another six-pack of Budwesier. Okay, so maybe the dead guy hadn’t had any discipline, but at least he hadn’t been one of those microbrew p.u.s.s.ies.

Holding the fresh six-pack, Perry stepped over the body and sat back down behind the table just as another black-suited man came into the kitchen. This one carried only a pistol. Through the suit’s clear visor, Perry saw the oh-so-serious face of Agent Otto.

“Hey, Clarence,” he said. “You look like a fat ninja.”

“Thanks,” Otto said. “That means so much coming from a source of wisdom like you.”

Perry opened the bottle and drank it in one pull. Six down. Five more and he’d be nice and hammered. Everyone has to have goals in life, right?